their lodgers and finally asked them whether they knew anything about
Robert Charles. They strenuously denied all knowledge of his
whereabouts.

The Negroes lied. At that very moment the hunted and desperate murderer
lay concealed not a dozen feet away. Near the rear, left-hand corner of
the room is a closet or pantry, about three feet deep, and perhaps eight
feet long. The door was open and Charles was crouching, Winchester in
hand, in the dark further end.

Near the closet door was a bucket of water, and Jackson says that
Sergeant Porteous walked toward it to get a drink. At the next moment a
shot rang out and the brave officer fell dead. Lally was shot directly
afterward. Exactly how and where will never be known, but the
probabilities are that the black fiend sent a bullet into him before he
recovered from his surprise at the sudden onslaught. Then the murderer
dashed out of the back door and disappeared.

The neighborhood was already agog with the tragic events of the two
preceding days, and the sound of the shots was a signal for wild and
instant excitement. In a few moments a crowd had gathered and people
were pouring in by the hundred from every point of the compass. Jackson
and his wife had fled and at first nobody knew what had happened, but
the surmise that Charles had recommenced his bloody work was on every
tongue and soon some of the bolder found their way to the house in the
rear. There the bleeding forms of the two policemen told the story.

Lally was still breathing, and a priest was sent for to administer the
last rites. Father Fitzgerald responded, and while he was bending over
the dying man the outside throng was rushing wildly through the